


Said "I'm Fine" but It Wasn't True

by RobinsonsWereHere



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rehabilitation, Relapse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, alcoholic!Jules, but there's a lot of angst first, dangerous consumption of alcohol, story goes from post-4x16 to post-7x09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinsonsWereHere/pseuds/RobinsonsWereHere
Summary: After 4x16, Juliet doesn't get help. She doesn't take time off. Instead, she shoves down her recent trauma and patches herself up, with the help of a little too much whiskey. It becomes a habit, and then an addiction. She doesn't know what to do, how to help herself. She doesn't think she needs help.Luckily, Shawn and Carlton think otherwise.
Relationships: Burton "Gus" Guster & Shawn Spencer, Carlton Lassiter & Juliet O'Hara, Carlton Lassiter/Marlowe Viccellio, Juliet O'Hara & Karen Vick, Juliet O'Hara/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	Said "I'm Fine" but It Wasn't True

**Author's Note:**

> _I'm drunk in the back of the car_   
>  _and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar_   
>  _said 'I'm fine' but it wasn't true_   
>  _I don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you_
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, "Cruel Summer"

It starts out innocently enough, logical, even sensible. Juliet gets home from a two-hour therapy session and, exhausted, scared, and frustrated, has a drink. It warms her up, so she has another, and then another. And that’s when the problem begins.

Because that night, she doesn’t have nightmares. For weeks, she’s been dreaming of falling, of loudly ticking clocks and trap doors and pavement rushing up to meet her. But when she falls asleep a little too drunk, the dreams don’t come. So even though she doesn’t mean to drink so much that night, the next time she does it, it’s on purpose.

And then, with a glass (or two or three) of whiskey each night, Juliet starts to feel better. Which is good, because the eight weeks of department-mandated therapy are over, and though they’re supposed to help, they’ve left her in worse shape than ever. Over and over, she’d had to describe waking up, bound and drugged, in a cruiser. Over and over, she’d had to explain the heart-stopping fear that had come with dangling hundreds of feet over Santa Barbara. And then the damn shrink hadn’t even done anything about it.

So she drinks, and when she goes to the shooting range with Carlton, her hands don’t shake. When she dons a professional gray pantsuit for her first day back, she doesn’t flinch. And when she gets home that night, physically and emotionally spent from _pretending_ all day, well… she’s still got half a bottle of whiskey left.

\---

The case isn’t even that similar. But Juliet has only been back for three weeks; it’s been not even three months since… everything. So spending a full day tracking down the person who’d drugged and kidnapped a young woman is a little too much. She holds it together during the briefing, her nails digging into her palms. She stays quiet when they’re tracking the perp down, but if Carlton notices, he doesn’t say anything. Even at the station, she fills out all of the paperwork and makes herself see only letters and words. Not the girl's face, beaten and pale. Not the man’s sneer, when they’d cuffed him and brought him in. Just the words.

By the time she gets home, she’s shaking. She fills a whiskey glass full, far beyond the ‘two fingers’ mark. She needs it, tonight.

Juliet isn’t exactly a lightweight, but that much to drink in under an hour is past her limits, especially since she hasn’t eaten since lunch. It tastes much worse coming back up than it did going down. She resists the urge to fall asleep on the cool, tiled bathroom floor and crawls into bed, still clothed.

She knows she’s in trouble when she doesn’t even regret it.

\---

Carlton is in a good mood, satisfied by a job well done. They’d caught the perpetrator of a series of bank robberies, and the woman had confessed and was now behind bars. He and O’Hara are now out celebrating.

The bartender brings them their drinks-- a double of bourbon each. “Cheers,” he offers, holding his glass out.

“Cheers,” repeats O’Hara, with a bit of a smile. They clink the glasses, and Carlton takes a sip of his.

O’Hara downs the whole damn thing in one go.

“Woah,” Carlton says, surprised. “You good, O’Hara?” As far as he knows, his partner has never been much of a drinker.

She smacks her lips. “Yeah, why?”

Frowning, he gestures to her glass. “You drank that pretty fast.”

Juliet shrugs. “We’re celebrating.”

Something about this isn’t sitting well with Carlton, but tonight’s not the night to push. He’s just glad to see her back to her normal, carefree self, after everything she’s been through.

“Well,” he says, “I’ll drink to that.”

\---

There are days when Juliet scares herself with how much she’s drinking. The night she realizes she’s gone through a bottle of scotch in a week is one of them.

The problem is, she doesn’t realize how much she’s drinking daily. She pours herself a glass when she gets home, usually eats dinner and then has another two or so afterwards. Yes, doing the math, she knows that’s about ten ounces a night-- more if she fills the glass too much. But ‘ten ounces a night’ and ‘one bottle a week’ sound a lot different, at least in her head.

She doesn’t stop, though. She could, she tells herself, but why should she? It’s making her _better._ She can be bright and cheerful, enough to get smiles from her coworkers and half-hearted pleas for silence from Lassiter. She can get all of her work done, and handle almost every sort of case without forgetting how to breathe.

Shawn… Shawn is harder. Maybe it’s his… abilities, but he seems to know something is up. He’s stopped asking if she’s okay, at least, but lately, every dumb joke has been delivered with concern in his eyes. Juliet doesn’t quite have the energy to convince him, so she avoids him, and it seems to work.

The thing about Shawn, though, is that he’s almost magnetic-- he always manages to pull her in. So she ends up chasing a chinese gang with him, and saving his neck, and he smiles at her, really smiles. So maybe… maybe staying away isn’t the way to handle this.

Maybe she can let herself step a little closer.

\---

Shawn sits in the Psych office, thumbing through Prescott’s book without really reading it. “Hey, Gus,” he asks, “is it just me, or do you feel like something’s up with Jules?”

Gus shrugs. “I don’t know, Shawn, she seems fine to me. In fact, for someone who was kidnapped with no hope of rescue, like, six months ago, she’s doing great.”

Shawn winces.”Don’t say, ‘no hope of rescue’. We were always gonna try to save her.”

“You heard her on the phone, Shawn,” Gus says. “She told us to save Abigail, and as far as she knew, there was no way for both of them to make it.”

Shawn groans and drops his head into his hands. “Gus, buddy, believe me, I hear that call every night in my nightmares.”

“Sorry,” Gus apologizes. “But hey, she’s fine now. Don’t tear yourself up over this.”

“That’s just it,” Shawn mutters. “It’s almost like… like all of this normalness is a facade, like she’s hiding behind the person she thinks she should be. She seems a little _too_ okay.”

Gus sighs and shakes his head. “Shawn, believe me, I don’t blame you for worrying about Juliet. But she’s doing alright, okay? I know you feel protective after everything, but give her some space. She’s okay.”

Shawn sighs, leaning back in his chair and telling the voice in his head saying Gus is wrong to suck it. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. You’re totally right. She’s fine.”

\---

Juliet is not fine. She’d stayed a few hours late at work, tracking down a perp and wrapping up the case. The clock is approaching eight, when she’s normally home around six or so. Only a few hours late, but her hands are already shaking, and her head throbs with a headache.

She shouldn’t be this affected by a change in routine, it’s not like she’s addicted or anything. But still, she’s jittery and sweating as she unlocks her door, reaching for the whiskey bottle in the same move that she drops her keys. Tonight, she doesn’t even bother with a glass, instead flopping onto the couch and swallowing a slug straight from the bottle.

The bottle had been a little under a quarter full when she’d made it home. Around two hours in, it’s empty.

Juliet frowns at her watch. The numbers are a little blurry, but as far as she can tell, it’s somewhere around ten. Not too late for her to be out, then.

She realizes, passing a hallway mirror, that she looks like shit. As much as she just wants to go out and get a drink, she feels like maybe she could make some sort of effort. And so, ten minutes later, now wearing a cute cocktail dress instead of her rumpled suit, she walks more or less steadily out the door.

She’s not driving, of course, but there’s a dive bar a few blocks from her apartment. She can get something cheap and alcoholic, and she probably won’t be cut off.

It’ll be fun.

\---

Carlton pays the cabbie and climbs out of the car, nodding approvingly at the neon sign for one of his favorite bars. Tonight is one of those nights he just wants a drink of expensive scotch, maybe two, and then a good night’s sleep. 

Granted, even the expensive scotch at this place won’t be top-notch, but he likes the atmosphere here. Everyone leaves everyone else alone, so if you want to drink in solitude, you can do so for as long as you’d like. It’s his kind of place. Tonight, however, Carlton never actually gets his scotch. In fact, he doesn’t even get a chance to order.

He notices the wasted blonde fairly quickly, of course, but it’s not until he gets to the bar that he identifies her as O’Hara. When he does, he almost does a double take; she’s wearing a dress he hasn’t seen her in, her hair is down-- and a mess-- and she looks like she’s having trouble staying upright. As he watches, she downs a shot of what might be vodka, then reaches for another one, which she knocks over instead.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

Carlton turns abruptly away from the bar and paces over to her. “O’Hara?”

“Huh?” When she looks at him, her eyes are unfocused. “Oh, Carlton.” Her slurred words are almost inaudible. 

“O’Hara, what the hell are you doing here?” His brows furrow as he takes in her sorry state. “Why the hell are you doing vodka shots alone on a weeknight?”

“Ran out at home,” she answers, leaning heavily on the bar. “Wanna join?”

“No. No, actually, I think you’re done.” He holds out an arm for her to take.

She takes his hand, but pouts. “Carlton, I’m having _fun.”_ The last word is drawn out into a childlike whine.

“You are absolutely trashed, O’Hara. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

She stands obligingly, but before she can take so much as a step toward him, she stumbles. He catches her, supporting her with an arm under her shoulders. “Alright. I got you.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” she protests, despite a great deal of evidence on the contrary. “I only had, like, six shots.”

Carlton doesn’t even want to know. As they leave the bar, something occurs to him. “Oh, god, O’Hara, tell me you didn’t drive.”

“Nooooo,” she answers. “Don’ drink an’ drive.”

“At least you have some sense in you,” he mutters. “Do you have the slightest idea where your apartment is?”

Juliet frowns. “Nah.” She starts to fumble around inside the purse at her hip. “Here.”

It takes him a minute to realize she’s handing him her keys. Thankfully, they’re tagged with the address, and stamped with the apartment number. “Thank god,” he mutters.

They make it a few blocks in the right direction before Juliet gets even worse. Her feet are dragging and she seems to be almost falling off of him.

“‘M dizzy,” she mutters at one point, her heel catching on an uneven bit of pavement. 

Carlton successfully prevents her from face planting on the asphalt. “Well, that’s what happens when you get fucking _wasted.”_

She groans. “I don’t feel good.”

He turns to ask her to repeat herself-- she’s mumbling _and_ slurring at this point-- but before he can, she doubles over and vomits into a gutter. He curses and follows her down, pulling back her hair.

“Alright, alright,” he soothes, “get it out. You’ll feel better if you do.”

Actually, she’ll probably have a hell of a hangover once she stops feeling plastered. But that’s not going to help anyone at the moment.

Juliet tries to lie down on the pavement, but he pulls her to her feet, as gently as he can. “Come on. You’re almost home.”

She groans, but lets him continue leading her down the sidewalk. They make it back to her apartment building in a little over fifteen minutes.

Once they get into her actual apartment, Juliet stumbles into the bathroom and pukes again. Carlton holds her hair back, encourages her to wash her hands and rinse out her mouth, and then locates her bedroom and guides her to bed.

Thankfully, she’s out cold practically as soon as her head hits the pillow. Still, Carlton is hesitant to leave her alone. So he turns her onto her side (so if she gets sick again, she won’t choke) and drags a wastebasket over right next to the bed. Then, he retires to the couch.

As he’s drifting off into a sleep he knows won’t be restful, he notices an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table.

There’s no glass with it, no water ring on the table, not even an empty coaster nearby.

Carlton plants his face in the couch cushion with a groan. He’ll deal with this in the morning.

\---

When Juliet wakes up, the first thing she notices is that her head hurts. She tries opening her eyes, which lets in a bit more light-- not much, but enough to increase her headache tenfold and make her stomach churn.

This is the worst hangover she’s had in weeks. Normally, a shower and a cup of coffee has her feeling right as rain. Today, she’s not even sure she can get out of bed. She tries anyway, pushing herself up on her arms. She almost makes it to a sitting position, but her stomach rolls and she finds herself quickly falling back into the bed. Luckily, when she leans over the edge, there’s a well-placed trash can for her to empty her stomach into.

_Who put that there?_

Juliet’s question is answered when she hears footsteps, soon followed by the feel of hands pulling back her hair. “Good morning, sunshine,” grumbles a familiar voice.

“Carlton?” She doesn’t look up, still feeling like she’s on a rowboat in the middle of a monsoon.

“Yep. How’d you sleep?”

The next time she retches into the trash can, nothing comes up, so she groans and straightens, finally managing to face her partner. “Great. Wish I hadn’t had to wake up.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “I had a feeling you’d be in rough shape this morning.”

Juliet frowns. “What happened last night? When did you get here? I don’t remember anything after getting to the bar.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, god, tell me none of this is work related.”

“It’s not,” he assures her. “I went out last night because I wanted a drink of higher quality than what I have at home, but when I got to the bar and found you so drunk you could barely stand, I thought I’d help you home instead.”

Juliet blushes and looks down. She doesn’t want him going out of his way to help her… then he’ll worry, and he doesn’t need to worry. “Thanks,” she mutters. “Um, I’m gonna, ah, shower, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he says quickly, hurrying to leave the room. “I’ll make coffee.”

Juliet smiles happily at the promise of a caffeinated hangover cure. “Thanks, Carlton. You’re the best.”

Ten minutes later, Juliet is fresh out of the shower, and she should be getting dressed for work-- it’s past eight, after all-- but her head still hurts and her mouth is dry and her nausea is morphing into hunger, so coffee comes first. She wraps herself in a bathrobe and heads into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she tells her partner, after a long gulp of the black coffee.

“No problem,” he says, but he keeps sighing, and he’s giving her a weird look, and he seems generally uncomfortable but she doesn’t think it’s because she’s in a bathrobe.

“Carlton, what’s the matter?”

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You scared me last night, Juliet,” he finally answers.

She blinks. “What?”

“I’ve never seen you like that before. You were totally trashed, you could barely walk, I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there. Why the hell would you get that drunk? Ever, but especially on a weeknight?”

Juliet has to take a few deep breaths before she can answer. She’d never expected her bad habits to affect other people, and yet. She intends to apologize for worrying him, but she finds herself shrugging and trying to play it off. “I just felt like going out last night, Carlton. I had a little too much to drink. I appreciate you bringing me home.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And the empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table?”

Shit, she hadn’t expected him to notice that, or to put two and two together. Still, she hedges. “It was nearly empty last night; I finished it off before I went out.”

It seems like he gets more pissed off with every word out of her mouth. “There was no glass, O’Hara.”

She folds her arms. “So? I live alone, I drink alone. None of your business.”

“Well, it’s my business when you end up shitfaced!” His eyes flash with anger, but it doesn’t hide the legitimate concern, and somehow, that’s what pisses her off. “It’s my business when you could end up unconscious in a ditch!”

Juliet raises her voice, mainly to keep it from shaking. “I can take care of myself! Thank you, again, for last night, but I don’t need you to worry about me!” _I don’t want you to worry about me._

“Goddamnit, Juliet, you’re the one who made me start caring about people in the first place!”

Juliet sits slowly on a stool by her counter, wanting to vomit again. “Carlton, jesus christ! Can you just-- please, stop yelling? My head hurts enough already!” Her voice breaks. “Just leave me alone!”

“Fine!” He storms off toward the door, still scowling. “Just do yourself a favor and take the day off… or don’t. See if I care.”

Juliet waits until the door slams behind him before she slumps over the counter and sobs.

\---

Carlton feels even worse after arguing with his partner. Something in his gut is saying he shouldn’t have stormed out, but she was pissed at him and he was pissed at _himself_ for not knowing how to say what he really meant. They weren’t getting anywhere.

He’s both relieved and worried when Chief Vick tells him O’Hara has called in sick. On his lunch break, he brings her a sandwich from her favorite cafe. When he knocks, he can hear her moving around, but it’s nearly a full minute before she answers the door.

“Carlton!” She smiles when she sees him, though it’s a bit sad. “Hey, I’m sorry about this morning. You were a stellar friend, and I was really shitty to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he answers, somewhat awkwardly. “I probably overstepped, too.”

“Um, well, do you want to come in?”

This whole situation feels weird-- him working without her, seeing her in a tshirt and sweats, the hint of discomfort in her invitation. He’s almost glad to have an excuse to go.

“Nah, results from forensics should be in soon, I need to get back.” He suddenly remembers why he’s here. “But I, uh, brought you a sandwich.”

She grins at the label on the bag, then leans against the doorway, regarding him quizzically. “You don’t even like this cafe. Did you go out of your way to get me a sandwich?”

Carlton shrugs, uncomfortable with his gesture being called out. “I thought you could use some comfort food.”

She gives him a quick hug, the sandwich bag rustling in her grip. “Thank you, Carlton. Have a nice afternoon.”

“You too, O’Hara.” He waves as he steps away from the door. “Feel better.”

He didn’t go inside that afternoon. If he had, he might have noticed that last night’s empty whiskey bottle had already been replaced. He might have seen the hastily hidden glass in the sink. He might have realized that there was enough of a pattern here to worry over.

But he didn’t go inside. He didn’t see. And Juliet kept drinking.

\---

Juliet won’t drink during the day.

No matter how early she has to get up, no matter how close to home the body of a woman who had been pushed from the top story of a hotel feels, she won’t drink on the job. If she does, other people could get hurt.

Yes, by now she can tell this is more than a habit. She can tell that she’s slowly ruining herself. Still, drinking makes her feel better, lets her lie to herself that she’s whole. Yin may have broken her when he tied her up and left her to die, but that doesn’t mean she should let others get cut on the shards. So, she won’t drink during the day.

She doesn’t need it.

She doesn’t need it.

She doesn’t need it. 

She doesn’t need it.

She doesn’t--

\---

Declan is easy.

Declan doesn’t worry over her or ask if she’s okay, because he doesn’t know why she isn’t. He doesn’t carefully watch how much she drinks, because he hasn’t seen her really, truly drunk. He doesn’t care-- well, no more than a casual boyfriend should.

He also has really expensive alcohol and Juliet swears that’s not the reason she’s dating him, but it’s a nice bonus.

He’d admitted to his lie. He’d taken her to nice places. He’d invited her to stay the night and been a gentleman when she declined. What more could a woman want?

Deep down, Juliet knows he wouldn’t want her if he knew what had happened, if he knew what her life was. A perfect man like him would never want someone like her.

But it’s nice, for now. It’s nice. It’s a distraction, an escape.

And he does have really good alcohol.

\---

Juliet is only a little drunk when she kisses Shawn. Barely even tipsy. And maybe that does have something to do with her choice of timing and venue, but she knows in her heart that the alcohol is not to blame for her feelings. She’s not in any state to fall in love right now, but if she were, she knows she would love Shawn.

At any rate, she kisses him. She kisses him because how can she go to Italy with a man who barely knows her when the one who really does has been waiting for her for years?

Shawn cares. She knows that now, after listening to his conversation with Gus. And if she’s being honest, she’s known that for a while.

So she kisses him, and she doesn’t quite know what’s going to happen next, but she can’t bring herself to regret it.

Here goes nothing.

\---

Shawn tosses a stress ball in the air, then catches it again. Toss, and catch, toss, and catch, toss, and catch.

“Shawn, will you quit it?” Gus grabs the stress ball out of the air. “We have to get packed, since _someone_ decided we should go to Canada.”

“She tasted like scotch,” Shawn answers, his mind still in Declan’s living room, a few days previously.

“Yes, I get it, Juliet kissed you, and now you’ve lost all capacity to function. Don’t blame me if you forget underpants.”

“No, Gus,” Shawn says, sitting up. “She tasted like _scotch.”_

Gus frowns. “So?”

“What if she was drunk?”

“Shawn, why would she be drunk in the middle of the day? You know Juliet; she’s not like that.”

“I know, I know,” Shawn mutters, “I just… none of this feels real. It feels like some sort of mistake.” A feeling of warning throbs in his gut. He looks up almost pleadingly at his best friend. “Do you really think she’s into me?”

Gus laughs. “Shawn, she kissed you in her boyfriend’s house. She’s into you.”

Shawn grabs his passport off of his desk. “God, I hope so.”

\---

Juliet needs a drink.

She’d been frustrated to be sent to Canada in the first place, knowing it would delay any sort of meaningful conversation with Shawn. And then, lo and behold, Shawn and Gus were also, inexplicably, in Canada. And yet, when she had gone looking for Shawn in his hotel, he’d practically slammed the door in her face.

She can’t really blame him if he doesn’t want to start a relationship with her. After all, Shawn, unlike Declan, knows what she’s been through, even if he has no clue how shattered she really is. And Juliet doesn’t know that she should really be in a relationship right now, either-- holding herself together just for the work day is hard enough. But against all reason, she wants this with Shawn. She wants to date him, to taste his kiss again, to take comfort from his arms as well as her whiskey. Unfortunately for her, if what she’s seen since the kiss is any indicator, that’s not going to happen.

God, she needs a drink.

Juliet is roughly thirty seconds away from hunting down the closest, cheapest bar when Shawn appears, babbling about porcupines and legos. A dozen emotions bubble inside her-- hurt, surprise, desire, and a little bit of anger. He thinks he can brush her off and push her away and then all of the sudden change his mind, no consequences? Not fair.

Somehow, she still ends up making out with him in a pile of stuffed animals.

\---

Shawn Spencer is living his best life.

He’s naked in a california king sized bed, with luxurious, expensive sheets covering him from the waist up. He’s in a damn honeymoon suite of a five star hotel he doesn’t have to pay for. The best part? Juliet O’Hara, naked and gorgeous, climbing back into the bed with a bottle of nice, expensive whiskey.

“You know,” she says, “Canadian whiskey is supposed to be lighter and smoother than the American stuff.”

“Well, we should absolutely test that out,” he murmurs. “As long as we both stay naked the whole time.”

Jules laughs, blushing, and hands him a glass. “Well, I don’t exactly feel like figuring out where all of my clothing get thrown to… so I guess that works for me.”

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Shawn says, letting her pour him a drink. “I mean, I’ve been saying that for years, but now that I’ve…” he gestures to her naked form. _”Seen_ you, I feel like it bears repeating.”

Juliet smiles, leans over, and kisses him. This time, the taste of whiskey on her tongue doesn’t worry him at all.

\---

Juliet doesn’t drink as much on the nights Shawn is around. She doesn’t want to worry him, yes, but also, he’s easier to be around without having to drink to keep up her charade. He lets her be sad after a hard case, accepts when she doesn’t have the energy to smile. Still, she’s drinking more than the average person.

“Do you usually drink this much?” he asks one night, not quite laughing.

Juliet is working on her third glass of whiskey. “No,” she replies, and it’s not a lie. If he assumes that she usually drinks less, well, that’s on him. Besides, he would worry, if he knew. He would feel guilty, and blame himself for what happened like he does with his mom. He would try to apologize, try to take care of her, try to get her to stop drinking and confront her problems. 

She isn’t brave enough for that, though. So she keeps getting drunk and her problems keep getting drowned and Shawn stays close, and she’s happy.

Well, she’s close to happy.

\---

Shawn notices everything; it’s what he does. He can’t _not_ notice things. So, even when Jules is dragging him to bed, her hands in his hair and her tongue in his mouth, he notices.

There’s a broken wristwatch on the ground; he kicks it as they shuffle toward the dresser. It seems out of place and so does the analog wall clock lying on the dresser with the batteries taken out and there’s a connection to make there but he’s making out with Juliet goddamn O’Hara, he can make connections later. She tugs sharply at his hair, and Shawn forgets about the clocks.

They make it to the bed a few minutes later. Shawn is unnerved by a whiskey bottle on the nightstand. It’s wrong, it shouldn’t be there, but Jules is reaching for his belt buckle and he stops caring about the alcohol.

He’ll figure it out later.

\---

Yin comes back, because of course he does. 

The girl is an accomplice. Gus almost dies. Jules saves Shawn even though he can see her shaking. He wants to say he loves her but his mouth won’t form the words.

If he’d thought she was bad in the immediate aftermath, though, she’s worse that night, at her place. She’s quiet for the whole drive home, and her breath is shallow. It takes her three tries to unlock her door.

“Jules?” Shawn says gently, reaching to comfort her.

“I’m fine,” she answers, and his heart sinks because this is entirely too much like the aftermath of last February. She’s fine. She’s totally fine. Stop asking.

As he watches, she grabs a full bottle of whiskey from her counter, twists it open, and tips it back, practically chugging. A lump grows in his throat.

“Jules?” he tries again. “Hey, sweetheart, do you want to talk about it?”

“No!” She almost yells at him, but the harsh reply is negated by the way her voice breaks. “No, Shawn, I’m fine, _please_ don’t worry about me.”

She says it like she’s begging. And that, finally, is what pushes Shawn into action. 

His amazing girlfriend is curled up on her couch, drinking too much whiskey straight from the bottle, after spending an evening facing off against a man who might literally be her greatest fear incarnate. And she’s trying to make sure _he_ doesn’t worry.

“God, Juliet,” Shawn murmurs. He wants to join her, wants to hold her close and stroke her hair and kiss her softly. But that won’t help in the long run. No, he’s in over his head now.

And who does he always call when he’s in over his head?

Well, after Gus and Juliet?

Shawn stays within sight of Jules while he dials, but moves out of earshot, not that she’s paying attention.

_”Spencer, what the hell do you want?”_

He sighs at the familiar cranky voice. “Lassie,” he says, “Jules needs help. She’s not okay, Lassiter, and I don’t know how to help her.”

There’s a pause.

_”Did you just use my full name?”_

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Shawn can’t believe that’s what Lassiter got out of that.

_”Where are you?”_

“Jules’ apartment.”

_”I don’t even want to know,”_ the head detective groans. _”Stay with her. I’m on my way.”_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! If you liked it, leave a comment or kudos, or come find me @trixiesfranklin on tumblr!


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